


Parley

by manic_intent



Series: Strangers in the Night [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, That AU where John is in another gang, gang rivalry, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “Way I see it,” said a familiar voice from the big man in the dark shotgun coat beside Round Hat, “we stopped the train. Now, this don’t have to get unpleasant—”That voice. That big horse, its grey coat darkened by shadows thrown from the lanterns hung along the train. “Arthur?” John blurted out.The big man hesitated, staring right at John and his horse. “John?” He looked closely at the ranks of Major and the others, his gaze settling on Pei’s masked figure. “And your charming lady friend.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “What the hell.”





	Parley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercyme/gifts).

> For @mercyme, who asked for John/Arthur RDR2: “John blatantly has a thing for Arthur and Arthur maybe has a bit of a soft spot for him, too”. Have set this in the Strangers in the Night ‘verse, so enjoy? 
> 
> Warning: There is canon typical animal death (wolves) in this story.

One target, two gangs. That was usually a recipe for an immediate escalation in hostilities, but Major wasn’t one for escalating anything that he wasn’t sure that he could win. John’s face felt hot under the scarf he’d bound over his nose and mouth. He kept his preferred gun hand loose over his holster. Nobody had drawn on anyone yet. The train sat passive to a side, its great iron heart temporarily still, though it still smelled of hot metal and coal. The other gang was closer to the engine car, and Major’s was closer to the passenger carriages. Security on the train was dead or in hiding, and other than a few whimpers and sobs that cut through the night from the carriages, it was all quiet at the foot of the mountain. 

There were more people in the other gang, about ten to Major’s six, as far as John could see anyhow. They held a whispered conference in response to Major’s challenge, and one of them took his horse forward from the posse. White man with a round hat and a red scarf wrapped around his face, riding a beautiful white Arabian. 

“Not to be childish about it,” said the stranger, “but we were here first.” 

“Far be it for me to be childish about anything,” Major replied in his deceptively pleasant drawl, “but the first man on the train was ours.” 

John grimaced behind his mask. The more polite and pleasant Major got, the more likely things were about to become a ‘complete shitefarm’, as Silas liked to put it. Ben was already quietly limbering up, his hand resting lightly on the butt of his pump-action shotgun. If a shootout happened, John would have to break for the trees and hope to get lucky. There wasn’t any cover to speak of save for the train. 

“Way I see it,” said a familiar voice from the big man in the dark shotgun coat beside Round Hat, “we stopped the train. Now, this don’t have to get unpleasant—”

That voice. That big horse, its grey coat darkened by shadows thrown from the lanterns hung along the train. “_Arthur_?” John blurted out. 

The big man hesitated, staring right at John and his horse. “John?” He looked closely at the ranks of Major and the others, his gaze settling on Pei’s masked figure. “And your charming lady friend.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “What the hell.”

“Who’s charming?” Pei growled, raising her repeater. The gloom and her hat hid the delicate bones of her face, but the coat she wore did little to hide her curves. 

Major held up a palm, even as the stranger—Dutch, it had to be—glanced at Arthur. “Friend of yours?” Dutch asked. 

“Could say that,” Arthur said, “but it’s your call.” 

Dutch looked at a white-haired man beside him, who lifted a shoulder into an eloquent shrug. With a sigh, Dutch got off his horse, raising his hands palms up. “Parley?” Dutch asked Major.

“Sure.” Major dismounted. They walked together to the tree line, heads bent to each other. Major was taller than Dutch by a hand’s breadth, dressed all in black with only the silver in his beard to catch the light. He laughed at something Dutch said, but his eyes were hard. 

Left to stare awkwardly at each other in the thickening tension, John cleared his throat. “We kinda really got here first,” he told Arthur. 

“Shut up, John,” Pei said. 

Arthur chuckled, sitting back in his saddle. He looked relaxed, though John wasn’t fooled. He’d seen Arthur fight up close months back, ride straight into a knot of gunmen and law with a bared-teeth smile, bringing Hell in his wake. “That you who picked off the guard through the window in the third carriage?” Arthur asked Pei. “Damn. That was a great shot.” 

“Was her, I saw it,” said a man beside him with a Mexican accent. “Real good.”

“I was probably aiming for you,” Pei said, though from the way she tossed her hair, John knew she was grudgingly pleased. 

“We probably shouldn’t exchange pleasantries all night,” Ben said. He kept darting worried glances over at Major’s back. “We ain’t that far from Fort Croft.” 

“I agree,” said the white-haired man, “but I tend to favour avoiding hostilities with friends where possible.” 

A big man with a bristly dark beard bulled forward. “Arthur’s friend. Ain’t mine, ain’t yours, ain’t Dutch’s. I don’t give a fuck who got here first or whatever. I say if they want what’s ours, they can try and take it. Arthur can dig a grave for his ‘friends’ later if he wants.” 

“Big feckin’ words,” said Silas, his hands tight on his shotgun. His hat and mask hid his ginger hair and his handsome face, but the Irishman was angling for violence, clearly frustrated by the lull. “’Tis gonna be craic makin' yer ate dem.” 

“You wanna fight, Irish? I’m right here,” growled Dark Beard. 

“Settle down, Bill,” Arthur said, with a warning glance. Bill contented himself with a final glare at Silas but did so with a huff when Dutch and Major turned around and walked back to the group. 

“Major and I have come to a gentleman’s agreement,” Dutch said, his thumbs tucked in his gunbelt. “He and his men—”

“Hey,” Pei said.

“—people,” Dutch amended without missing a beat, “will rob the passenger carriages. We’ll take the private car.” 

“Major,” Ben said, incredulous, even as Bill growled, “We got to fucking share with these rats?” 

“Naturally,” Dutch said, raising his voice, “should the law or worse happen on us while we’re carrying out our activities, we will at the least try not to shoot each other in the fray.” 

“Try our very best,” Major said, eyeballing Silas pointedly. He turned to Dutch, stretching out a gloved hand that Dutch shook firmly. Dutch marched back to his horse, getting on and chivvying his gang with sharp waves to the front of the train where the private car waited. 

“Y’all know what to do,” Major said, watching Dutch go. “Ben, go with the others. John, you stay here with me. Watch the horses.” 

“Sure,” John said. Ben gestured at the first-class carriage. Dismounting, Ben led the others into the carriage as John used Tacitus to bracket the horses between himself and the train, keeping pace with the gang as they swept the carriages.

Major followed on Stranger, though he kept a wary eye on Dutch’s gang. They hadn’t gone far. The security carriage between the first-class carriage and the private car had already been cleared out, and Dutch was yelling threats at whoever was in the locked private car. “They’ll have to blow the door,” Major said quietly.

“That why you split the train?” John asked. 

Major shook his head. “I didn’t know what was in the private car. Dutch did. Fair’s fair. Besides,” Major said in a lower voice, at the startled look John shot him, “it ain’t something we want a part of.” 

“Dutch told you what it was?” 

“I figured some things out. Hush now. Stay sharp,” Major said. 

This was John’s usual role in any train robbery anyhow. Keep an eye out, watch the horses. He didn’t often have company for it. John’s nerves were strung to a fine point by the time they worked down to third class, where the pickings were slim. By the time Ben and the others slipped out and mounted up, John was jumping at every strange sound from the trees. At Major’s winding gesture, they rode down the railway line until a road bisected it, then angled up to the trees. It was an hour’s ride to the camp they’d made deeper up the mountains, and treacherous going during the night. Park cursed once in Korean as his horse slipped against scree, but he gained control of the panicked animal before he was thrown. 

“Keep a close eye out tonight,” Major said once they got back to hidden camp. “Don’t think we were followed, but the whole night’s given me a bad taste in my mouth.” 

“Why’d we split de train?” Silas growled as he dismounted. “We cud 'av taken dem easy.”

“I’ve seen Arthur fight. Wouldn’t have been easy,” John said. 

Silas glared at him. “Wasn’t askin’ yer, eejit.” 

“It was my decision,” Major said as he sat down on a crate and stretched out his legs, pulling down his mask. “We chanced on the train as an opportunity. Dutch said they’d been planning the heist for some time. That the train belonged to Leviticus Cornwall.” 

Ben whistled as he dismounted and handed John the reins. “A Cornwall train? Hell. Don’t Dutch know what messing with Cornwall will bring down on his head?” 

“I gave him a friendly warning. He said he didn’t care, but I think he was maybe a little spooked. That’s why he agreed that we could take the rest of the train.” 

“What little there was,” Park said, folding his arms. “Wasn’t a normal passenger train.” 

“We’re alive. We win some, and we lose some.” Major swung his hard-eyed stare around the camp. “We’re not desperate for cash, not like Dutch. Desperation drives men to make mistakes. I prefer not to be driven. By anyone. Or anything. John?” 

John startled in the middle of removing Stranger’s tack. “Sir?” 

“Think you best keep away from Arthur for a time.” Major’s smile crooked up his mouth in a thin curl.

“I didn’t tell him nothing about tonight,” John said defensively, “I haven’t seen him since that time, I—”

“I didn’t say none of that,” Major cut in. “Hold up, boy. I meant. Dutch is a desperate man, leading a gang of desperate men. It looks like we might be sharing the same hunting ground for now. Be careful; that’s all I want.” 

“Okay, Major. I hear you,” John said. He had no intention of going near Arthur anyway. Not in person. At night though, when alone in his tent with no one to watch him? John liked to close his eyes and remember in greedy detail how warm and solid Arthur had been pressed against him, how confident his fingers were, pushed deep inside John to the knuckles.

#

Life had never had much interest in the best of John’s intentions. He was buying a new pair of stirrups in the stables in Valentine when Arthur said, “The hooded stirrups will do you better.”

John flinched and turned around, hand dropping to the pistol at his hip. Arthur smiled lazily at him as though he didn’t notice. His dark green shotgun coat stretched over his broad shoulders, folded over a white shirt with a couple of buttons undone. Holsters looped his narrow hips with a new pair of guns, a couple of custom Schofields. Riding boots hugged his long, long legs. Arthur had shaved recently, his hair cut short. It wasn’t a bad look. Arthur probably didn’t have a bad look.

“You uh. Had a haircut,” John said. He mentally kicked himself. “I mean. You look kinda different.” Nope. That was no better. 

“Hope so, or I’d have just wasted some of my money down at the saloon.” Arthur sauntered over, checking out the tack on display. “The slim-line ain’t gonna be much of an upgrade on what you’ve got now.” 

“I don’t have the money for much else,” John admitted. 

Arthur tilted his head. “Didn’t your boss recently come into some money?” 

“Wasn’t that much,” John said, wary now. 

“Tell you what. You front what money you’ve got, and I’ll top it up. You’ve got a fine horse there. Deserves the best tack.” 

“It’s your money.” John didn’t expect Arthur to pony up the cash and gawked as he did without even batting an eye. As John fitted the new stirrups onto Tacitus’ tack, Arthur bought a new saddle roll and bags for Boadicea and greeted another horse that he had stabled in the stalls near the back, a white and black warhorse.

“You like ‘em big,” John said as they led their freshly outfitted horses out of the stable. 

Arthur grinned at John. “Well now, sometimes I like ‘em skinny and pretty.” He winked. 

John’s face felt hot as he jerked his gaze away. “I meant the horses,” he mumbled. 

“Mightn’t I have meant horses?” Arthur said innocently. He stroked Boadicea’s neck and mounted up. His bags were heavy with supplies—he even had a jackrabbit hung against his saddlebags. 

“Going somewhere far off?” John asked, with a nod at the bags. 

“Just up north for a bit. Into the mountains.”

“The mountains? What’s up there?” Major had written off that whole area as an icy deathtrap during winter. ‘Too many wolves, too many starving people,’ he’d said. It was thawing now into the spring, but no one in the gang ranged too far north. 

“Ain’t we meant to be enemies?” The question was asked playfully, but Arthur’s smile was tight. 

“I don’t know, Arthur,” John said. Honesty bubbled out of him, hauled out by the sheer weight of Arthur’s presence, by the way even that guarded smile lit up his face. God was Arthur fine. “I was hoping we ain’t.” 

“Sometimes hope ain’t much to speak of.” Arthur lifted his stare to the town. Valentine was easing its slow way into the afternoon, waiting for the train. The few people moseying through the streets were there on reluctant business, hunched against the cold. “You busy?”

“Busy doing what?” 

“Just generally. Busy.” 

“No. Why?” 

“Hypothetically, if I was to steal you away for a couple of days or so, will I wake up one morning with your lady friend’s gun in my face?” Arthur asked. He smirked at the startled look John gave him. 

“Away to where?” 

“Up north. Lake Isabella. I heard a rumour about a ghost horse roaming the mountains. Wanted to see this ghost for myself.” 

John grimaced. “Ghosts? The hell for?” 

“Call it a powerful curiosity. You in?” 

John was tempted. Major and Ben were quietly investing the money from the bullion robbery still, which was why the Cornwall robbery had been opportunistic. They hadn’t been hard up for cash. With the boss and Ben run off to Saint Denis for a week, everyone else had just been encouraged to ‘stay around and out of trouble’. Whatever Arthur was going up north for, it sure as hell sounded like trouble.

“Promise I’ll get you home by midnight,” Arthur said, amused. 

“Midnight what?” 

“Never you mind. Was just a thought. Be seeing you, John.” Arthur nudged Boadicea into a trot. 

“Wait, wait.” John got onto Tacitus’ back. “Let me leave a note at the post office.”

#

“You’re being real nervy,” Arthur said as they ascended past the tree line and into the snow.

“Yeah, well. Maybe I was kinda told not to go anywhere with you,” John admitted. He’d been watching the trees, expecting Pei to jump out at him at any moment and yell at him. 

Arthur laughed. “Told not to go off with the big bad wolf, hm? Maybe your boss has a point. Could be dangerous. Could be I’m just luring you north to take advantage of your innocence.” He smirked. 

John glowered at him. “Funny.” 

“I don’t much like getting people into trouble that they don’t need though,” Arthur said, sobering up. “So if you need to go, go.” 

“All he said was not to go near you for ‘a time’ and to watch my back. Didn’t say for how long. And I always watch my back.” 

“Your lady friend implied that you got into trouble all the time. Might be I’m starting to see why,” Arthur said, though his good mood was restored. 

“Fuck you,” John said. He pulled a face and Arthur chuckled. 

It was strange how easily they fell into a rhythm, trading stories that had nothing to do with their gangs. Arthur was in the middle of telling John about a wildlife photographer he’d saved from angry animals when the snowy path levelled out to a lake ringed by firs and sharp-tipped peaks. Ice sat in jagged floes and islands over the lake, under which the silver flanks of great fish flickered in teasing patterns. 

“Whoah,” John breathed. He’d been up and down everywhere with Major, through the deep country and the wild plains, and the world never stopped surprising him. He wished he could frame the view in his memory, hang it up in his mind and come back to it forever. 

“Ain’t that something.” Arthur had a look of contentment on his face, the quiet joy of an outdoorsman who loved the secret places of the world. 

“You come up here often?” 

“Ain’t never been up here. Now the rumour says the ghost horse was seen ‘round the forest on the northwestern corner of the lake. Think we should check thereabouts for spoor.” 

“Ghost horses leave spoor?”

Arthur gave John a long stare. “I don’t think it’s a ghost, John.”

Oh, right. John coughed to hide his embarrassment and kept his peace as Arthur led them over to the tree line. The cold bit into John’s cheeks, seeping through his old winter coat. Wasn’t even his—it was a hand-me-down from Ben, one of several. John had never had clothes of his own, other than his shoes. His hat had been Major’s, his coats Ben’s, his shirts and belts, Silas. John didn’t much mind—or hadn’t, before Arthur. Arthur, who looked sleek and put-together in clothes that fit, even as he went down on his haunches in the snow. 

It took them close to an hour to find something that might’ve been from a wild horse, and John was shivering and rubbing his hands together, puffing on them. “White horse hair on the bark,” Arthur said as he inspected a tree. He turned around, blinked, and came over, clasping John’s hands between his. “Hell, your hands are freezing. Don’t you have gloves?” 

“They d-don’t fit,” John admitted. His gloves were a spare pair from Park. 

“Mine’s probably too big for you, but better than nothing. Keep looking. I’ll fetch 'em.” Arthur strode off down to their horses before John could object. Bemused, John kept checking the ground in a slow circuit, the way Major had once taught him to. He’d found old tracks by the time Arthur got back to him with an old pair of brown gloves. They were too big for his fingers, but they didn’t pinch like Park’s. 

“Thanks,” John said. Arthur waved it off, studying the tracks. 

It took them the better part of another hour to see it. A glimpse of silver in the distance, flashing through the trees. A white horse as pale as the snow, picking its way through the firs. “Real beauty,” John whispered admiringly. 

“Yeah.” Arthur was uncapping a hip flask. He took a long swig and offered it to John. When John shook his head, Arthur put it away and quietly unhooked the lasso from his hip. “Now you keep an eye out for me while I get close to her. This here’s wolf country.”

“Good luck,” John said. He liked horses fine, but he didn’t have a mania for them, not like Arthur. Arthur’s eyes were afire as he crept across the snow to the grazing horse. John tried to stay downwind and out of sight as Arthur worked his way down. 

The horse snorted loudly once it noticed Arthur, backing off as Arthur started to talk to it in a gentle, calm voice. “Hey, girl. Easy now, sweetheart. Easy now.” He kept a steady litany as he got closer, stopping whenever the horse became too skittish. Arthur had to be some kinda horse whisperer. Wild horses never gave John a chance like this. Worse, an angry stallion had even charged John. Ornery thing. Pei had laughed so hard watching John run that she’d had to sit down. 

Arthur relaxed further once he got into lassoing range. He waited until the horse calmed enough to stop prancing, then tossed the loop of rope right over its head, scrambling over as it whinnied to get on its back. John held his breath as the horse bucked sharply, but Arthur stayed on somehow, petting its neck and talking to it. John stayed where he was, wary of spooking the horse further—and he saw it. A shadow by a rock, easing closer on four paws. 

John tried to get quietly closer just as the horse spun around and saw the first wolf. Spooked, it sprinted off with Arthur still on its back. The wolf pack streamed out over the snow. They’d gotten ‘round front too, trying to cut off the horse’s retreat. John hollered, trying to attract their attention as he lost sight of Arthur and the horse through the trees. 

It worked. The wolf pack gave up on the fleeing horse. They closed in, a couple of them circling behind him. John let go of his fear, kept his gun-hand steady the way he’d been taught. He aimed and breathed in and pulled the trigger. The closest wolf buckled and fell over, shot through the head. The one beside it snarled. It lunged at John, teeth bared. He shot it in the cheek and throat and stumbled aside out of its pounce. Three more bullets before empty. John backed off to the closest tree, putting his back to it. 

The too-big gloves made John’s hands awkward as he fumbled in his pouches for ammunition, scattering bullets on the snow. The next wolf leapt. John got it in the chest, shots that didn’t seem to faze it much—it whimpered but didn’t back off too far, shaking itself. A wolf darted in from John’s flank. He shot it in the shoulder, and his gun chambered on empty. The wolf jerked back, but the wolf John had shot in the throat was upon him, jaws closing on the arm John threw up to protect his throat. John dropped the gun and plucked his knife from his belt, jamming it to the hilt in its skull. Shoving it off and wincing at the pain that flared up his arm, John fumbled for his second gun just as a wolf sprang on him and bore him down, jaws snapping for his face. 

The roar of a shotgun blew out the snarl of the wolf. Another blast. The wolf on John flinched and retreated. Panting, John tried to get to his feet. The pack was already on the run. Arthur watched them go with a scowl, shotgun in hand. “Long winter,” he said once their hearing returned. “Pickings are few up here. Should’ve figured they’d be this desperate. You all right?” He looked at John’s bleeding arm and made a face. “Ah, shit.” 

“You came back,” John said blankly. “What about the white horse?” 

“Probably run off by now. Why?” 

“But we came up here for it,” John said. 

“Jesus, John. You think a new horse is worth more to me than your life? Wolf must have knocked your head against the tree. C’mon. Got to get that bite looked at.” Arthur thrust the pistol at John and started to make his way through the bloodied snow. 

They set up camp closer to the lake and stoked up a fire. John’s wounds weren’t too deep. As Arthur bandaged him up, he said, “You’d just have a few interesting scars.” 

“You’ve got some of those,” John said, lightheaded from the brandy from Arthur’s pack that he’d drunk down when Arthur had prepared to stitch him up. 

“Yeah, well, I’m older than you, and I was young and stupid once too.” 

“Sounds like stories I’d like to hear,” John said as Arthur put bandages and salves away in his saddlebags. Arthur let out a snort as he wiped his hands down. He’d been in a funny mood since they’d come down from the trees empty-handed. John tried to sound confident. “The horse will be back. Maybe after a few days.”

“I don’t much care about that.” Arthur sat down beside John, doling out supplies. 

“Sure, you do. I saw it in you. The way you got close—”

“I mean,” Arthur cut in, “I nearly got you killed over a goddamned horse.” 

“Not like you put the pack there. ‘Sides, I’m glad I was there. Wouldn’t have wanted you dying in the snow. They’re gone, we’re fine.” 

Arthur exhaled. “Ah, shut up, John.” He pulled John into a kiss, licking roughly into his mouth. John let out a desperate strangled sound and tried to climb into Arthur’s lap, knees everywhere, but Arthur grunted as he hauled John to the closest tent. John must’ve elbowed Arthur in the ribs at least once as Arthur rolled John onto his back—Arthur cursed and glared at him as they fit awkwardly against each other and the sleeping roll. John’s injured arm brushed the ground, and he hissed. Arthur froze.

“You good?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, I’m… yeah.” John didn’t even care about the cold or the tangled press of their bodies. He hooked his hands into Arthur’s bandana and dragged him up. They fit more easily together as they kissed, hats pushed off as they drew fingers greedily into each other’s hair. Arthur pushed a thigh between John’s legs and rubbed the hard curve in his pants against John’s hip, punctuating his kisses with low gasps and groans. John felt drunk on stolen time, on the unreality of having Arthur bucking against him, Arthur’s lips pressed over his unshaven cheek, over his mouth. Wasn’t much comfortable rubbing one out like this against Arthur but John didn’t care about that either. Didn’t care about the mess that he was gonna make, or about how Major was gonna be mad if he ever learnt about this. He rode eagerly up Arthur’s thigh and whimpered for more as Arthur growled and pulled at the buttons on John’s pants, navigating his underwear until he got a spit-wet hand on John’s cock, tugging roughly until John wailed and clutched at Arthur’s shirt, coming against his belly. 

“Wish it wasn’t so goddamned fucking cold,” Arthur panted. “Wish we had more time. I’d like to open you up good. Make you take more’n just my fingers.” He brought his stained palm to his mouth and grinned as he licked it clean, then laughed as John snarled and hauled him back down.

#

John flinched awake at the sound of a pistol being cocked near his head. He was sprawled against Arthur, who grunted as John kneed him in the stomach. Park glowered at them through the twitched-open tent flap. “What the fuck, John,” Park said.

“Hell are you doing here?” John said, disentangling himself hastily. “I left a note at Valentine for y’all.”

“Bold of you to think I read your notes.” Park glanced at Arthur and back at John. “Huh.”

“Morning,” Arthur said, unfazed. 

Park sniffed. He slowly decocked the pistol and holstered it, backing away. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t see anything,” Park said. 

“Thanks.” John hadn’t expected any such grace from Park. 

“It’s too annoying having to deal with drama. Get up. You’re here; you might as well help,” Park said. 

“Help with what?” Arthur asked, with amiable curiosity. “A friend of John’s is a friend of mine.”

“I’m not a friend of John’s,” Park said, his lip curling. “More like a supervisor.” He turned to John. “There’s a story going around about a ghost horse near the lake.” 

“Uh, it’s probably on the other side of the mountain by now. There were wolves. And stuff,” John said, angling to show Park his bandaged arm. 

“I should’ve known,” Park said, throwing up his hands in disgust. He stomped off to the horses and paused when John didn’t follow. “You coming?”

“Where?”

“We ride back. Major and Ben should be due back soon. They sent a message.” 

“Oh. Right. Give me a sec,” John said. Park nodded, getting on his horse and trotting off down the road. Alone, John started to laugh. 

Arthur chuckled ruefully, reaching out to tousle John’s hair. “I’m starting to see a pattern,” Arthur said. He kissed John before John could answer. “G’awn then. Go.” 

“You staying?” 

“Horse might still be around.” 

“Wolves, too.” 

“Doubt they’d find me as tasty as you,” Arthur said, “though I understand why they feel that way.” He winked. 

John didn’t want to be charmed and was charmed anyway. “Y’know. Major really could use another gun. All our money gets invested in a company in equal shares. In bonds and stuff. Everyone gets a share, and everyone can see how it’s doing. You could leave your gang and sign up with us.”

Arthur’s smile faded. “Life ain’t that simple. Wish it were.” 

“Wish it were,” John echoed softly. He kissed Arthur on the forehead and got out of the tent to saddle up. 

On the road back down the mountain, Park said, “I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask.”

“Yeah?” John said, braced for something abrasive. Or worse. 

Park looked grave. “Did either of you see the ghost horse?”

**Author's Note:**

> Refs:  
Catching the white Arabian horse took me 3 fkn tries, during which I was once eaten by wolves. Ahaha. I used that horse until Chapter 4, when I finally got tired of how weird Arthur’s big frame looks sitting on it. Pretty horse though. TBH, on my final successful attempt, I just had Arthur swig down alcohol, charge the horse, and jump on its back. What is finesse. BTW yes this is really not how you break a horse nowadays, modern horsebreaking is kinder and gentler. 
> 
> My apologies to any actual Irish people reading the fic, but ahaha this English to Irish phrase translator is hilarious. http://www.whoohoo.co.uk/main.asp 
> 
> As to wolves, here’s an update on the Trump Administration’s attempt to delist them from the Endangered Species List: https://www.vox.com/2019/7/13/20690727/endangered-species-list-2019-gray-wolves
> 
> \--  
twitter: @manic_intent  
about my writing, prompt policy, etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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